The Dirty Thirty
by Hoodfabulous
Summary: I travel the Dirty Thirty alone, searching for something ... searching for myself. What I don't expect to find is him. A birthday one-shot written for and dedicated to Jonesn.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

_This one-shot is dedicated to Jonesn._

_Happy Birthday, bb._

_I love you._

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**The Dirty Thirty**

_written by_

_Hoodfabulous_

_for_

_Jonesn_

There is nothing unpredictable or chaotic about my life. Each day is an endless routine of mundane nothingness that makes me want to slit my wrists.

I wake up every morning alone in my bed. There's no husband, no boyfriend, no significant other, unless you count my vibrator, who I spend more time with anyone I know.

After waking up I yawn and take a piss. Then I wash my hands and brush my teeth. While the coffee brews I slink out to the end of the driveway in my pajamas to retrieve the newspaper. The kid who delivers it seems to always toss it in the bushes. Half the time they're there, hidden among the tiny, glossy, green leaves, and the other half of the time the neighbor's dog has chewed it up, scattering the black and white printed pages across my dewy lawn.

I really hate that dog.

Once inside I pour myself a cup of coffee. I take it black.

Then I spend the next few minutes frying bacon and eggs, inevitably burning each, because my cooking is crap. It's one 'skill' that I 'learned' on my own, since I grew up without a mother. I was raised by my father, a man who ordered takeout for us every night, for the entire eighteen years I lived with him. I'll probably be a diabetic in a few years. It's either that, or die of heart disease from all the greasy meals I've consumed in my life.

My thoughts have taken a rather morbid turn lately as I'm about to turn thirty very soon. I feel the inevitable day creeping up. It's almost as though I see the years slowly dwindling by and it's killing me … it's killing me that I have accomplished nothing in my life.

Nothing

I dreamed of going to college when I was younger, and managed to do so for a while, living off student loans and grants, but the money soon ran out. The bills began to pile up and I found myself working not only one full-time job in the evenings, but a part-time job as well, just to make it out in the world on my own. My grades began slipping and the next thing I know I'm on academic probation. My grades deteriorated to the point where I lost my scholarship. Things only went downhill from there.

Eventually I let it all go. The stress outweighed my drive to succeed and I'd suddenly become my mother; a woman who never finished anything she set out to do in life, a woman who accomplished no goals, a woman who gave up on everything …

Being a wife

Being a mother.

With each passing day, I hate myself for the mistakes made in my youth a little more.

The smell of burning toast drags me from my internal reverie. I shuffle over to the oven, because I'm too broke to afford a toaster since I blew up the last one. I pull the slightly, burned toast from the rack, cringing at the blackened crust. Then the next five minutes of my time is spent scraping the bottom of the dark, slightly burned bread. Each swipe of the butter knife against the bread grates on my nerves, and I take turns cringing and sighing in frustration.

This is my life.

My eyes drift to the open window over my sink, the same sink where I slowly scrape the blackened bread, peppering the shiny silver surface below with the charred mess. Kids ride their bikes down the tiny road I live on. They laugh and sing, teasing each other. Their hands are sticky from popsicles and ice cream. The girls speed away from the quickly pursuing boys, their faces aflame with embarrassment as their skirts flap wildly in the wind. Their knobby-kneed legs pedal anxiously, and I wonder … I wonder when I last felt that carefree?

When is the last time I felt that exuberant over being pursued by a man?

When is the last time I relished in the brilliancy of the wind slapping my reddened cheeks?

I shake my head and throw my burned toast on a plate, slather some jelly on it, and stuff my face until I'm miserable. The sadness lingers, but it is muffled now, partly snuffed out by a full belly, and the reluctance of another day at work.

~dirrty~

I tried waitressing. I applied for a job at Newton's, a local truck stop just off 'The Dirty Thirty,' AKA, Highway Thirty, in the tiny, rainy town of Forks, Washington. I started working at Newton's when I was nineteen-years old. I never could grasp waitressing.

Literally.

I never could _grasp_ anything.

The plates perched on my arms would tilt this way and that, spilling fries on customers' laps. Cokes landed on the floor, splashing against the stained tile. The other waitresses; the more seasoned, established ones, would shake their heads in shame at my antics, their eyes rimmed in pity and it pissed me off. It pissed me off that I couldn't do something as simple as delivering a few plates of food to a table without it being a complete and utter disaster.

I was quickly demoted to dishwasher.

That was ten years ago … almost eleven now. I've been scraping and scrubbing and spraying food from dirty dishes for nearly eleven years. I do it even now, and, as I watch the suds disappear down the drain, I realize these suds are a metaphor for my dismal life.

The panic buds in my chest. Is this it? Is this all I deserve out of life? Is this the cruel hand that God has dealt me? I'm to grow old alone, living in some shitty, nowhere town for the rest of my days, too broke to afford a toaster?

I want more.

There are things I've always wanted to do, but I have yet to do them. I've always been responsible Bella, the girl in high school who studied on the weekends instead of partying with her friends, the girl who dated the good, sensible guys, the type of men who my father approved of, yet bored me to tears, and what's come of it?

Nothing.

At the end of my shift, I shuffle into the bathroom, glancing briefly in the mirror as I run my fingers through my deep, brown hair. My fingers pause in the lackluster strands, caught in the frizzy mess caused by bending over steaming, hot water in a greasy kitchen all day.

My dark eyes are dead. They're dead just like this town.

Dead like my love life.

Dead like my future.

The tears don't spill over until I'm in the back parking lot, bending, hands on knees, near the back dumpster, having a full-blown panic attack.

That's where I find her.

Maybe it's where she finds me.

I hear her before I see her. Her strangled grunts and muffled curses sound out above the scuffle of feet and heckling of dirty old men. I'll later wonder if this girl is an angel, although I'm sure she's not. I'll even question if she's real. Maybe she's the voice of reason buried somewhere in the back of my mind. Either way, she's in the parking lot behind the shitty diner where I work, getting attacked by three grown men as they try to pin her against the side of the neighboring, brick building and accost her.

The girl is around my age, maybe a bit younger, wearing black leather chaps, wife beater, and leather vest. Her exposed arms are covered in tattoos and her long, black hair is in a wild, windswept disarray. I'm unable to focus on any other fine details.

As two of the men pin her arms against the building I'm shocked into stunned silence as the other man takes her wife-beater between his beefy fingers, ripping it halfway down the front of her chest. I find myself fumbling blindly in my cheap, pleather purse, searching for the one thing my policeman father always insisted on, and breathing a sigh of relief as I find it.

I find my trusty taser. Turns out, I don't even have to use it.

Before I can bat an eye, the guy standing in front of the woman is curled in the fetal position on the dirty ground, clutching his abdomen, or maybe his groin. The two men pinning her against the wall automatically let go as they watch their friend fall. Each one is assaulted with the spiked heel of the woman's pointy, black boots. Blood flies from their faces as their heads snap back. The woman never stops. She never pauses for a breath. She kicks and hits and punches and screams obscenities until all three men are joined together in a pile on the asphalt, moaning and groaning in pain, twisted in a bloody mess that causes her to sneer.

I blink.

"You got anything to eat in there?" the woman asks, nodding her head toward the restaurant.

The voice that comes out of her mouth is low, raspy, and sexy. As she removes a cigarette from a crumpled packet in the front pocket of her vest, I immediately know why. I nod numbly, my fingers fumbling once again in my purse as I drop the taser inside, and pull out a set of keys. The woman follows me, laughing, as I quietly explain there is a new, non-smoking policy inside the old building.

"I'll call the cops," I quietly explain, unlocking the back door and letting her pass me by, then quickly locking the door behind us.

The petite woman nods, pausing only to grab a clean glass from a drying rack and dumping her ashes inside. She explores the back room, even opening the large refrigerator to disappear inside, emerging with a grin, and a giant tub of chocolate chip cookie dough.

I watch her with wide eyes, and the phone pressed to my ear as she helps herself to a spoon, and saunters into the dark dining area, switching on the lights as she enters the room.

After ending the call, I go to join her, finding her sitting crisscross-applesauce on a table, shoving spoonful after spoonful of cookie dough into her mouth. I approach the odd girl slowly and quietly, almost as though she's a wild, wounded animal.

She very well may be.

"The police are on their way."

The girl nods thoughtfully at my statement. Her eyes are fixed on something, yet nothing, in the distance, their warm, dark depths remembering something from long ago.

As I slide onto a nearby chair staring at her, I find myself wanting to know more about this strange girl, wanting to know why she was hanging out in a dark parking lot of a shitty truck stop in the middle of nowhere, _needing_ to know how a small girl such as herself learned to kick, hit, and punch the way she did.

"You worked here a while?" she asks, dropping the container of cookie dough carelessly beside her as she suddenly fixes her eyes on mine.

"Since I was nineteen," I respond, my eyes flitting across her vest and the various patches fixed therein.

"Ten years … almost eleven years.

"You like working here?"

I contemplate her question for a moment before letting out a dry, bitter laugh.

"No. No, I don't like working here."

"So, why do you?" she asks seriously, studying me closely. "Work here, I mean."

My bottom lip is wedged between my teeth.

The question is so simple, yet so complex.

Why _do_ I work somewhere that obviously makes me so unhappy? Why do I subject myself to this miserable life day by day?

"What else would I do?" I ask, shrugging as the sound of police sirens suddenly wail in the distance.

"Whatever makes you happy," she responds, sliding from the table top and giving me a wink as she disappears outside.

~dirrty~

Alice Cullen, the girl I met in the dark parking lot of the truck stop, is a selfish little thing. She reveals so little about herself, yet becomes absolutely absorbed in my pathetic excuse of a life, drinking up everything I have to say like a woman dying of thirst. She knows all my hopes, my dreams, my fears. I share the pain of having a mother who brought me into the world, yet found me so inconsequential, that she never took the time to care anything for me. I tell her about growing up as an only child, and of the loneliness I felt. She knows every failed relationship I've had over the years, how not one man found me interesting enough to stick around for very long.

The tiny girl becomes a fixture in my life … until one day, she doesn't.

"You're doing the right thing, Bella," she tells me, slinging my backpack in the backseat of my beat-up car.

"This is the most dangerous decision I've ever made."

"It is," she agrees with a nod, her long, straight bangs falling into her eyes.

"I could die."

"Possibly," she muses, "but were you ever really alive to begin with?"

I say nothing. She continues.

"To die at twenty-nine … to be in your twenties forever … it's a romantic concept, no?"

No.

"Alice, you're psychotic."

"Yet, you listen to me," she giggles, her slight Southern drawl enduring.

"You're taking my advice! Do you have the list?"

I do.

It's the only thing in my possession besides the backpack with a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a loaded twenty-two, my taser, and an assortment of feminine hygiene products. I wave the folded napkin in the air, blushing as I remember the things listed on the thin, wrinkled paper.

"Don't be embarrassed, B," she advises, throwing her leg over her motorcycle and gunning the engine, yelling her last words over the rumbling machine quaking beneath her. "You still have time to cross one wish off your list."

Alice pats the bike with a grin, and I hesitantly shake my head.

"I'm not ready for that yet," I hedge, swallowing the knot of fear lodged in my throat.

I've always been terrified, yet mesmerized by motorcycles. It is one of my many dreams, one of my many desires, to ride a motorcycle on the open road, to feel what those kids felt on their bicycles the day I stared at them through my dirty kitchen window. I'd take it. I'd take the freedom and exhilaration, sticky fingers and all … just not right now.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready and it just doesn't feel … right, riding with Alice.

"Do you have the envelope?" she asks, the heel of her boot shoving back the kickstand as she heaves the huge bike up.

"Yes," I whisper.

She notices the look on my face, and for a brief moment, she looks hesitant. My new friend, my only friend, is leaving me. She's leaving me standing next to my shitty car in my shitty driveway in this shitty, little town, and I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

"When do I open it?" I ask. "When do I open the envelope?"

Alice grins, revving the engine once more and licking her lips.

"Open it when you're ready to reach your destination."

Then she's gone, rumbling down the dirty road on the long, sleek motorcycle, leaving nothing but exhaust in her wake. I watch her dark silhouette until I can't see it anymore, blinded by the strain of the sun on my weary eyes.

I sigh as she disappears into the sunset.

Sliding onto the worn seat of my car, I muse over my new direction in life, remembering the confusion and disbelief in my father's eyes as I head in the direction of Highway Thirty, the Dirty Thirty. He hadn't believed me, not for one minute, when I told him I was quitting the truck stop.

It was never in my plans to completely abandon my job, but I'd worked there for years, not once taking a vacation. I asked for twenty-nine days, three months in advance. He had three months to give me what I needed: twenty-nine days for twenty-nine years of my miserable life, yet Mike Newton, manager and owner of the crappy truck stop, turned me down flat, bumbling and fumbling over the excuse of not having anyone to replace me, which was shit. I didn't give a damn it he _himself_ had to get his hands wet. I needed a break.

So I took it; a permanent one.

I flung a dish towel in his face and walked away, angry, and then giddy with excitement of doing something I'd never done before; quitting a job without notice. That was something responsible Bella wouldn't do. No, responsible Bella would mull it over for a few days before making a decision.

Responsible Bella didn't do anything abruptly.

Responsible Bella was sensible.

Responsible Bella no longer exists.

Once I convinced my father that I truly did quit, and had no set-in-stone plans for my future, he'd shoved a wad of cash in my hands, smiling shyly at the stunned look on my face. He quietly explained that it was emergency money, money he'd saved up for hard times. I took the money after much insistence on his part, not being the type of woman who'd ever easily accepted hand-outs from anyone.

Now I sit here on the bypass, swallowing the thickness that formed in my throat as I stare at the cars and trucks flying past. I slam the door of the car behind me, wishing I had something monumental or symbolic to say to the old vehicle, but finding nothing. The truth is I hate this car, just like I hate this life I'm living.

So I leave the car behind on the side of the road. I climb the embankment of the overpass, wading through overgrown grass and the weeds clinging to my legs, stomping wildflowers beneath my worn shoes.

I walk the Dirty Thirty with the sun on my back and my thumb in the air, heading somewhere … somewhere far, far away from here.

~dirrty~

There's only a few things from my list that I cross out as I travel the highway, but there are tons of things I do that I never dreamed of doing along the way as well.

In Idaho I consume a baked potato as big as my head; giggling like a schoolgirl as the older men in the dim diner I sit in, egg me on. I'm scowling at them later, not only because of my pained, protruding belly, but because the potato wasn't just one, but two potatoes cleverly arranged to look like one.

The potato-picking bastards tricked me.

I ride a horse in Nebraska, something that doesn't sound overwhelmingly exciting to many, yet altogether terrifying and thrilling to me, a girl who grew up afraid of her own shadow. I smile as the sun sets in the distance. The coarse tail of the animal beneath me lazily whips through the air, the strands lazily slapping me against my leg as he softly neighs.

I make love to a man in Indiana. We're lying outside a tent on a soft quilt, surrounded by nothing but the shrill song of the crickets and a blanket of stars hanging overhead, sparkling in the celestial sky. He calls me by another woman's name, murmuring the word as a tear slips down his sun-kissed cheek. I allow it, and even find no offense in the gesture, for as blissfully pleasurable as it feels to have him buried deep inside me; it still doesn't feel completely right.

It's never felt completely right.

It's in Indiana when I begin to feel restless and hollow. The excitement of the past few days has worn away. As the giant of a man falls asleep beside me, I slip from his arms, digging around in my backpack until I find the wrinkled envelope my strange little friend handed me before she drove out of my life.

I slip my finger beneath the flap, and break the seal. There's a folded note hidden inside that I remove with shaky fingers, slightly nervous to find what Alice has written inside.

It's an address; an address in Biloxi, Mississippi.

There's no explanation, no phone number. There's just an address, written in black ink, the scrawl in block print, tiny and perfect, just like her.

There's a key, as well. It's simple and gold, slightly muddled from age. There's no numbers engraved on it. The surface is smooth, dull and simple. I hold it in the air against the sun. I hold it as though it is the key to everything, the key to my happiness, the key to my future, and maybe it is. The thought brings a wistful smile to my face.

The next day I take a detour.

I leave the Dirty Thirty.

It feels symbolic in a way that I didn't feel leaving my car behind, the car I'd had for years and years. Leaving the Dirty Thirty, a highway I never traveled, was not only like leaving the nickname behind, but leaving my age behind as well.

Screw thirty.

I'm twenty-nine.

Maybe it's just for a number of days, but I'm _still_ twenty-nine.

I leave Indiana behind, never looking back.

~dirrty~

My trip doesn't go completely smooth.

I'm attacked in Tennessee, held down by a truck driver who wanted a little more from me than I was willing to give. It's the one and only time I've ever used my father's gun, other than target practice, but thankfully I don't kill the man.

The girl writhing beneath him with a gun pressed against his temple and eyes wide with shock and anger is enough to make him back off. I leave him on the side of the road and walk for miles and miles, too scared to accept a ride from anyone until my feet hit Mississippi soil.

An old man in a faded, blue pickup truck pulls to the side of the road and offers me a ride. I accept, grateful for the kind, watery eyes that greet me as I slide into the musty cab and ask that he drop me off somewhere near the closest used car dealership.

I'm thankful for the man's silence as we ride along, the wind whipping in through the open windows, the sound of Johnny Cash quietly crooning from the cracked speakers. It gives me time to be reflective of my time on the road, of the 'almost' incident that happened in Tennessee, and of the wonder and excitement of what I'll find in Biloxi, a place I've never been to, and have never cared to see.

Until now.

The old man leaves me just where I asked, in the parking lot of a used car lot, which looks more like a junkyard in a ghost town. I watch his truck putter away in the distance as he throws one wrinkled, weathered arm through the window, returning my wave.

I purchase a VW bug with some of my dad's emergency money. The car is rutty and red, with chipped paint and a rusty bumper, but it has a convertible top, and when I slip inside I feel like a teenager again, yet not the teenager I once was. I feel like the kid I should have been; happy and carefree, grinning with the top laid back, peeling down the heat-cracked highway, breathing in the alluring smell of magnolias and pink mimosas blowing in the breeze.

It takes me a couple of days to reach my destination. I break down and pay for hotel rooms both days. I bask in the Mississippi sun, sipping sweet tea and laying on a lounge chair beside the hotel pool with my head tipped back. I close my eyes against the sun, my heavy lids protected from the bright light and I think of nothing for two days.

I think of nothing for the first time in my life.

I arrive in Biloxi on a Friday. I don't immediately go to the address Alice so graciously led me to. Instead, I sit on the beach for a while staring into the waves, comparing them to the ones in Washington. The water is a different color, as is the sand, and I find that I love the Gulf of Mexico.

I love the sounds of excited children running the length of the beach.

I love that I don't have to worry about a downpour at any given moment.

I love the casinos and gambling and rednecks in cheap suits sipping whiskey.

I love the smell of fried food mixed with ice cream that wafts from the many stores. And I love the cheap souvenirs, seagull picture frames and sand dollar Christmas ornaments.

I wonder why Alice left this place, why she travelled all the way from Biloxi to Washington. I wonder if she was escaping something as well, and I hope that she will find it. The thought of my mysterious new friend constantly searching for something in life, yet never discovering it, saddens me, so I push the thought aside, along with the sand between my toes as I stand. I find my car in the throng of vehicles far from the shore, and pull out the map I found earlier in the glove box.

I leave the beach behind.

I leave the sun and the waves, and the parasailors drifting across the clear blue sky. The map I have pinned beneath my hands against the steering wheel flaps in the breeze as the smell of the salty, Gulf slowly fades away. I take the back roads, disappearing in between the lingering pines and strong oaks. The road I travel winds around, twisting this way and that, shielding my view of anything, other than green leaves, and thick brush, until I see it ahead.

A lake.

A seemingly never-ending lake surrounded by spaced-out wooden houses with large windows and wrap-around decks overlooking the dirty waters below. Piers jut from the land in front of the homes. Kids climb tall, winding slides from the shore, squealing as they slide down and plunge into the murky water. I shudder slightly, the thought of the dark waters and what lies beneath them causes me to cringe. It's on my list … one of the many things on my list. I want to learn how to swim. I want to feel light and weightless, just as Alice had vividly described to me, her arms flailing about, as I shared my secret desire to learn a skill that most people my age already knew.

When I reach my destination, I park the car and stare up at the monstrosity in front of me, my mouth slightly ajar. The wooden house is huge; two-stories with a wraparound deck on the bottom floor, and a wraparound balcony on the top. The roof is made of shiny tin, and I instantly imagine the sound of a rainstorm pounding against the gleaming surface, longing for a sudden downpour that I so typically despised, while in Washington.

The image of the rain pounding against the tin roof, lulling me to sleep in front of the picture windows overlooking the lake is tempting. I find myself slipping from the car, blindly slamming the door behind me as the gravel crunches beneath my feet in the drive.

Something draws me around the house and I bypass the front door altogether, my feet sinking in the soft grass as I make my way. The sight before me causes me to pause.

There's the lake, the gentle waves lapping against the shore. A stone pathway winds down the sloping hill in front of the home, ending at the shoreline. A wooden walkway also swoops down the steep hill, ending at a boat dock where a houseboat stands, virtually unmoved by the soft waves slapping the sides.

Canoes are propped upside down on metal structures beneath the tall, looming trees. Teenagers on jet skis cut across the water, laughing and yelling as they ride so dangerously close to one another that it causes me to suck in a deep breath until they disappear in the distance, still laughing, still yelling.

The lake is so far, so wide that it's almost impossible to see across. I strain my eyes to make out the opposing houses in the distance, tucked neatly beneath the trees, standing tall and proud in their stature.

Taking a deep breath, I pull the gold key from my jean shorts and trudge back up the hill. Once I'm standing on the shaded porch, backpack thrown over one shoulder, I slide the key inside the door, smiling as it easily opens.

I toss the backpack on a nearby couch before exploring the house, slightly shocked that it looks so … lived in. There's a pot of coffee still sitting on the coffee maker, although I'm not sure how long it's been there. There's little food in the fridge, but the carton of eggs I find is still in date, along with sandwich meat and a few other items. I make a mental note to head into town later, and load up on my favorite, carb-enriched guilty pleasures.

There's a phone perched on the bar near the kitchen. A small, orange light flashes methodically from the base, taunting me. As wrong as it may seem, I find myself hitting the button on the base, greedily listening in and gasping as I hear Alice's raspy voice.

"If you're listening to this, Bella, that means you made it," she chuckles. "You made it to Biloxi … you made it to my home. Stay there as long as you want to. Find a job. Don't find a job. Do something dangerous and completely irresponsible. Have fun. And … take care."

There's a clicking sound as her voice fades, and I find myself wondering about her last sentence … take care. The words sounded so hesitant, so ominous, that I briefly wondered if she were even referring to me or someone else.

I back away from the phone and decide to explore the house. I'm confused by the loads of dirty laundry I find piled up in the living room, and the blindingly obvious dirty carpet running along the wide staircase.

I shrug, climbing the steps and glancing from room to room, further confused as I find one room locked. There's another bedroom with an unkempt, messy bed that I assume is Alice's. The color of the room is neutral; warm, inviting, but I don't want to delve inside. The thought makes me feel like an intruder in her personal space. I toss my backpack in a seemingly unused bedroom across the hall from Alice's, and head back downstairs, shaking my head and chuckling as I begin washing some random person's laundry … some _man's _laundry, that I gather in the living room.

I must be losing my mind, washing some stranger's clothes.

I smile as I think of Alice entertaining a man in her home before heading out on the open road. The clothes that I'm washing must be his. I smile and roll my eyes at the thought, as I strip down to nothing but my bra and panties, tossing my dirty laundry, along with the clothes from my backpack, into the wash.

The sun dips into the lake as I wash, dry, and fold clothes. I'm so absorbed in my housework that I don't hear _him_ as he approaches.

"I'd ask you what the hell you're doing in my house," a smooth voice says in my ear, his warm breath washing over me, sending goose bumps erupting across my flesh, "but it's not often I find a beautiful, naked woman doing my laundry, so I'm not gonna knock it."

Jumping and shrieking in shock, I spin around, and find myself pinned against the washing machine by a man; a very tall, very _young_ man who stares down at me with a quirked eyebrow and a teasing smile on his face.

"Should I call the cops now, or wait until you finish this load?"

"Who _are_ you?" I ask, pressing myself further against the cool metal of the washing machine.

"Who am _I_?" he asks, laughing. "Who are _you_? You're in _my_ house."

"Your house?" I say dumbly. I give him a good once-over for the first time, taking in his obvious youth and carefree smirk. "This is _Alice's_ house … isn't it?"

"You know Alice?" he questions, his mirth melting away, being replaced with hope and a hint of loneliness. "You're a friend of hers?"

"Yes," I whisper, feeling extremely awkward under his solemn gaze. "She's letting me stay here for … a while."

The man says nothing in response. The seriousness leaves his eyes. I suck in a deep breath as he steps forward, placing his hands on either side of the washer, trapping me within inches of his body. His eyes flit across my face for a moment before dipping down to my chest.

My nipples immediately harden under his gaze, because damn, he's gorgeous. His eyes are intense, yet playful, surrounded by thick, dark lashes. The worn shirt he wears clings to his upper body, flaunting his cut chest. He's wearing board shorts, as though he were out swimming, although they're not wet, and a pair of leather flip-flops. His skin is tan; kissed by the sun and he smells like screw-me-twice-and-please-come-back-for-more. His hair is wild, bronze and gold, flopping this way and that, and I immediately think of sex for the millionth time in the past two minutes that I've watched him.

"I mean … if that's okay … me living here for a while."

I sound like an idiot as the words spill from my mouth, too enthralled, too dumbfounded by this man to form coherent sentences. His green eyes linger on my breasts for a moment, a slow smile curling on his face as he notices my nipples straining against the thin fabric of my bra.

I cross my arms, and my fingers accidentally graze against his _very hard_ chest. The shock of this man's presence fades away, and is replaced with the reality that I'm standing in his laundry in nothing but my panties and bra.

"What's your name?" he asks, leaning in further, taking my breath away as his face grows so very close to mine, the smirk returning yet again.

"Bella," I gasp, my eyes widening as his face is so close I can almost kiss him.

"Bella," he muses. "Nice to meet you, Bella. I'm Edward, and I guess we're roommates."

He draws away from me, pushing his hands against the washing machine and grinning as he saunters away. I dumbly follow him until he disappears through the door. I find myself hiding near a window; my eyes never leave his retreating frame, even long after he walks onto the pier, peels the sinfully tight shirt from his body, and dives gracefully into the water.

I watch him long into the evening, hiding in the dark house until he pulls himself back on the pier, emerging from the lake, dripping with water. Then I dart upstairs, lock the door, and stare at the ceiling for hours, completely exhausted, but feeling more awake, more alive, than I have my entire life.

~dirrty~

It feels strange, sharing a space with someone I don't know, moving from room to room and feeling the breath pulled out of me every time I see him, somehow forgetting that this man is living in the same house as me.

Edward, on the other hand, appears completely comfortable with our sudden living situation. He chats easily with me over the next few days, explaining that Alice is his sister, his only sibling. He talks about his job, working in construction over the summer. I watch him as he comes and goes, leaving for work with a smile on his face, and returning with one as well. The smile is normally tired and sometimes a little sad, although I'm not sure why.

One day he offers to cook, laughing as I blush after ruining another meal. He suggests we go grocery shopping, rolling his eyes when I offer to pay for the groceries. Then he snatches the keys to my bug from my nimble fingers, claiming he's driving.

I let him.

Truth be known, I'll probably let him do anything … with me … to me. There's no denying the sexual attraction I have for this man. I hate myself for feeling the way I do about him, this guy who casually mentions he's eighteen-years old and starting college in the fall. I stare blankly at the swirling greenery as the bug bumps along the winding, lake road, too engaged in my own thoughts to process the words coming out of his mouth after he admits his age.

Eighteen.

"Damnit," I mutter below my breath.

"What?"

I don't realize my softly, spoken curse is audible over the whipping wind. The top is rolled back on the bug and my hair is slapping me across my face. I pull it into a messy bun and avoid his gaze.

"Nothing."

I learn that he's a stubborn ass once we arrive at the grocery store. He argues and whines over my avoidance of purchasing brand name products, being the penny-pincher that I've always been. We engage in a tug-of-war over a box of freaking, Frosted Flakes that goes on for five minutes before I ungracefully bow out, tossing the blue box with the grinning tiger into the cart before walking away in a huff.

Edward follows me, cackling to himself as he pushes the squeaky cart behind me. He calls out that he wants soup tonight for supper, ignoring me as I argue over my shoulder about the sweltering heat, and how it's too hot outside for soup.

It's when we reach the canned goods aisle when _it_ happens.

I'm standing on my tiptoes, reaching for a can above my head. I feel a rushing coolness of the air drift across my exposed flesh when my shirt slightly lifts as I stretch to grab. My skin bursts into flames as I feel his warm fingers brush across my skin, his hands gripping tightly over my hips.

My heart is thumping so erratically I feel as though it's about to burst. I swallow dryly as I feel him press himself against me, gasping as I feel his hard length pressing against the small of my back.

"What are you doing?" I manage to mumble, shocked that I can even form the simple sentence.

The fingertips of his left hand dip below the waistband of my shorts, slipping below the strings of my thongs. His other hand leaves my body, easily reaching over my head and pulling a can from the shelf above. He hands it to me, then places his free hand on my waist once more.

"Maybe I'll teach you how to cook tonight," he muses. "Then you can cook for me … I can't wait to _taste_ what you have to offer. Would you like that, Bella?"

My mouth opens and closes. I can hear him taking a deep breath, brushing his nose against my hair, now hanging down at the nape of my neck, the messy bun somehow coming loose and slightly undone during our ride to the store.

"Of course you would," he says, with a hint of teasing laughter in his voice. "You'd love for me to have a taste. The thing is … once I have a taste, I don't think I'll be able to stop. I'll want to keep tasting, and tasting, and tasting …"

He thrusts himself against me before releasing me, causing me to gasp and squirm. My legs feel weak, as though they're about to give out from beneath me, and I've never been so turned on in my life.

I watch him as he walks away, practically sauntering as he grabs the buggy with the wild wheel that spins around. I stand alone in the canned goods aisle, holding a can of stewed tomatoes as he disappears around the corner, whistling to himself, uncaring that he's started something only he can stop.

The sexual innuendos go on day by day; the 'accidental' brush against my back when I'm engaged in something, shocking me each time, or the twisting of simple words that turn me to mush. I know I should tell him to stop, but I can't. I can't tell him to stop, just like I can't stop the fantasies I have about him. It's not long before he knows exactly how attracted I am to him.

~dirrty~

I've been in Biloxi for weeks. During this time I've maintained the same routine; waking up and drinking my coffee out on the pier, watching the sun as it rises in the distance, feeling his eyes on my back from somewhere within the lake house behind me. I watch him as stands over the stove, cooking eggs to perfection, laughing at the look of annoyance on my face at my inability to do so, as he gently places a plate in front of me.

The days are long when he's away at work. I spend them cleaning, reading, or simply staring out into the dark water, watching as fish and turtles break across the glassy surface, wondering about my future … how long I'll stay in this town so far away from my home.

My nights are spent with him, giggling as we fight over the remote control, trembling when he smirks, and not-so-innocently brushes his fingers across my skin on occasion. I listen to him in rapt attention as he talks about his childhood, the stunts he and Alice would pull. I drink in his carefree laugh, his wicked smile, his taunting eyes.

I find myself mesmerized by this young man.

At night, when I'm all alone in my bedroom, I think of him long after the sun has disappeared. I lay in bed tossing and turning, eventually laying on one side and staring through the window at the big, white moon.

The familiar butterflies flit in my stomach as his face flashes in my mind. I gnaw on my lip for a moment before I find myself tugging my sleep top off, tossing it and then my cotton shorts and panties to the floor.

I want him. I want him behind me, pounding into me until I'm so exhausted I beg him to stop. I want him slamming into me as he pins me down on my bed. Just the thought of it leaves me wet and throbbing. Before I know it I'm rolling onto my stomach, the image of him taking me from behind playing in my mind as I buck my hips against my own fingers, stroking myself.

My knees dig into the mattress as I thrust against myself in a steady rhythm, harder and harder, and my heart speeds up as well. I cry out his name into my pillow as I come, then fall into an exhausted slumber, my fingers wet and sticky, a smile on my face.

~dirrty~

It's a muggy Saturday night, filled with the sound of crickets and frogs singing in an unmarred harmony. We sit on the deck for a while, watching the sun disappear into the horizon, studying the sky streaked with purple and pink, before returning to the cooler confines of the house. Edward joins me on the couch, sitting alarmingly close, jeans brushing against my bare skin below the hem of my sundress.

I sip a glass of wine, teasing him occasionally over his age and the fact that I'm a legal adult, old enough to buy alcohol without even being carded anymore, poking fun at him to help smother the fluttering in my chest caused by him sitting closely by my side.

"Why are you so obsessed with your age?" he asks, out of the blue, his green eyes boring intently into mine.

"I'm not obsessed with my age," I grumble, studying my wine glass carefully as he watches me.

"Yes, you are," he argues. "You bring it up all the time. I don't think you even realize when you're doing it."

I shrug and sigh, suddenly feeling a bit melancholy as I gulp down the last of the sweet liquid and place the empty glass on the coffee table.

I feel his gaze for a moment before he reaches in his pocket, snickering as my mouth drops open when he produces a small bag of weed.

"You smoke?" he asks, his green eyes sparkling mischievously.

"No," I whisper, remembering my list … my list of things I want to try before I turn thirty.

"Never."

I watch in awe as he breaks open as small cigar, dumping the tobacco in one corner of a large, unused ashtray on the coffee table and then rolls a blunt. I silently try to memorize the technique in case I ever need to use it. He leans back, sinking against the soft cushions of the couch as he finishes and glances at a lighter on the table, a lighter that is sitting closer to me. His eyes dart pointedly between me and the lighter.

I grab it, twist sideways and flick my thumb over the rough metal. His eyes never leave mine as I light the blunt and he takes a drag. I'm mesmerized by the sight of his cheeks hollowing out before he slowly releases the smoke into the air. It pours from his mouth, over his bottom lip, and from his nose, swirling around his smirking face.

"You want?" he asks, cocking his head to the side, a slow grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," I say, immediate with my response.

"If I give you this," he says, his cocky gaze turning slightly serious, "what are you gonna give me in return?"

My body burns under his stare, and my heart jumps into my throat. I say the words without a second thought.

"What do you want?"

Edward takes another drag. Then he tilts his head back, blowing the smoke into the air.

"Inside of you," he responds, meeting my bewildered stare at his admission, "and you're gonna let me, aren't you, Bella?"

I open my mouth in shock, not even sure how to respond, but he doesn't give me time to speak.

"Come here."

Edward's expression is calm, even a bit playful, but his words are firm. He gestures to his lap and I suck in a deep breath. His pants are tented and I see the hard outline of his erection pressing against the faded fabric.

"You're eighteen," I mutter, unsure of what to do about the conflicting emotions brewing inside me. "Practically a kid."

He stares at me for a beat longer, his gaze boring into mine. Then he grabs my hand, placing it firmly over his tented crotch.

"Do I feel like a kid?" he asks, guiding my hand up and down his length. "I'm a man. Get on my lap and I'll prove it."

Every dirty fantasy I've had of this boy is nothing compared to this moment; the feeling of his erection beneath my hand as I unconsciously begin to stroke him through the fabric of his jeans, the dark, lusty green eyes staring back at me, the thrill of his breathy moans breaking the heady silence of the room as my thumb encircles his engorged head.

A battle wages inside of me; good versus evil, right versus wrong. In the end he makes the decision for me, pulling me into his lap. I hover over him, my body humming in anticipation as he places his hands on the back of my bare thighs.

Edward pulls me further forward into his lap, pressing me roughly against his hard length. I stare down at him with eyes wide open, feeling like a hesitant, virgin once again. His hands slide up my thighs under my sundress until he's cupping my bottom in his hands.

"You know what 'shotgun' means, right?"

He laughs as I quirk an eyebrow, then he picks up the blunt and takes another drag. He drops the blunt back in the ashtray, gesturing for me to lean in.

I do. I press my mouth against his, taking in the smoke. My lips tingle and my body is set ablaze as his hand returns under my dress. I tilt my head back, watching the smoke billow through the air.

"Are you wet for me, Bella?"

"Yes," I whisper, groaning as his fingers massage my flesh.

"Do you want me inside of you?"

He smiles as I nod.

*****Lemmie removed to meet Tos*****

He gives my sensitive nub one nip before he pulls away. I drop my leg from the couch, hardly able to stand on my weakened limbs. He slides my panties back up my legs until they're back in place. There's a smirk on his face as he leans back into the cushions gazing up at me and I can't help but giggle and snort at the expression.

"You're just so proud of yourself, aren't you?" I giggle, feeling the full effect of the weed buzzing in my blood.

"Maybe," he gloats with a shrug, his eyes widening as I begin to sway on my feet.

He's by my side in a second, grasping my waist, bringing back the memory of the day at the grocery store with him from within the deep recesses of my mind. I stare up at him glassy-eyed and giggling, laughing harder as the smirk returns, stretching across his handsome face. He chuckles, shaking his head at me as he helps me across the room.

We stumble up the stairs as he leads me to my bedroom. I laugh as he practically drops me on the bed, landing beside me, gazing into my hazy eyes. My laughter dies away as his arrogant grin disappears, replaced with a tender expression.

"I'm really tired," I stupidly blurt out, cringing at my blunt words.

I avoid his eyes as he stares at me, my heart dropping as he stands up, a look of disappointment on his face.

"Get some sleep, Bella."

I quietly nod, chewing on my bottom lip as he steps away, running his fingers through his hair. His leg bumps against the computer desk near the bedroom door, and he glances down at it, his brow furrowing as he notices the worn napkin lying on top.

"What's this?" he asks, picking the napkin up and reading the faded words.

I'm suddenly too high, too exhausted, and too ashamed of myself to care that he's reading something very personal of mine.

"Things that I want to do before I turn thirty," I mutter, tiredly.

He nods thoughtfully, placing the napkin back on the desk.

"Sweet dreams, Bella," he whispers.

My eyes flutter as I quickly succumb to my exhaustion. The last thing I remember before drifting away is the feeling of warm lips delicately pressing against my forehead.

~dirrty~

I wake up groaning, the memory of the night before present, even after the weed I smoked. Glancing at the digital clock on my nightstand, I notice that it's seven o'clock. I bite my lip, and cover my face with my hands, fully intending to hide out in my borrowed bedroom for at least forty-five minutes, long enough for Edward to leave for work.

Turns out I don't have to wait after all.

A rumbling sound growls from somewhere outside, so loud that I can feel the floor trembling beneath me. I drag myself out of bed, edging across the room; hiding behind the curtains to look down below.

Edward emerges from the garage; a garage that I don't even realize is in use. The door has always been closed, and I've never seen Edward open it or park his truck inside. I watch in rapt attention as he slowly pulls out on a motorcycle, sleek and deep red. It's old, although I don't know how old. I don't even know the make or model, being green to motorcycles in general. All I know is that he's beautiful on it, straddling it and gunning the engine, peeling out of the long drive and disappearing into the pine-shaded distance.

I try to erase the memory of last night from my mind, but it doesn't go away. I scrub the house from top to bottom. I wash clothes. I clean the fridge. I pace around until the sun is gone and he's still not home. A part of me is relieved that he's not here … but a bigger part of me is worried; worried that he regrets what happened the night before, worried that he's not coming back until I'm gone, worried that he might be hurt on the vehicle I've never seen him on.

I sit at the kitchen table long after dark, chewing my nails down to the nub. My eyes dart to the clock constantly, the methodical 'tick-tick' driving me absolutely mad. I don't know who to call. I've never met any of his friends. He's never mentioned his parents. As a matter of fact, there are no pictures of him in this house, which I find odd, and a little sad.

It's midnight when I hear the rumble of the motorcycle in the distance. It grows louder as he approaches, then dies completely after I hear him park it in the garage. When he walks through the door, he freezes, looking like a deer caught in the headlights as he meets my gaze.

"Where have you been?" I demand.

The bewilderment slips from his face and is quickly replaced with confusion.

"Out," he mutters. "Why?"

"Why?" I hiss, throwing my hands up in frustration, shoving my chair from the table, standing, and placing my hands on my hips. "I haven't seen nor heard from you all day!"

The confusion is gone from his face at my confrontational tone. His eyes narrow into little slits, and he slams the door behind him, causing me to jump, shaking the walls with his anger.

"Since when do I have to answer to you?" he snaps. "You're not my mother. I haven't answered to anyone in a long time, and I'm not gonna start answering to someone now."

Something breaks inside me, tearing through my chest. My anger slips away at his defensive words, and I find myself turning away, turning away to shuffle to the stairs to hide the tears spilling over my cheeks.

"Come back here," he hisses, quickly crossing the room and darting in front of me.

"It's fine," I whisper, trying to shove past him as I avoid his eyes.

"Are you _crying_?"

"Move," I groan as he blocks the staircase. "Just forget it."

"Why are you crying?" he demands.

"Because I thought you left!" I snap, wiping the tears from my face, ashamed of showing such emotion in front of him. "I thought you left. I thought maybe you were hurt. I thought maybe you were dead. But you're right. I'm not your mother. It's none of my business where you go … or what happens to you, right?"

He says nothing, as I shove past him, and dart up the stairs, but I can feel him. I can feel him on my heels. I can hear his soft breaths expelling from his chest. I try to shove my bedroom door shut behind me, but he pushes back against it, causing me to stumble slightly and the door to slam against the wall.

"You were worried about me?"

"Of course I was worried about you!"

I'm screaming now. Screaming and crying. Feeling like an idiot for being overly worried to begin with, and feeling like a stupid woman for falling for this boy.

Because I have. I've fallen for this boy.

"Come here."

"No," I grumble stubbornly.

His eyes grow dark and I panic a bit at the expression. My eyes dart between him and the door, calculating the distance, and if I should make a run for it.

"Don't even think about it," he tells me, his voice stern.

"Don't tell me what to do, Edward. You're a _child_."

Tension fills the air as the two of us glare at one another, in mutual anger and frustration … but through it all I can feel it. I can feel the sexual energy bursting in the air, warming my belly.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth as he stalks forward, tugging his shirt over his head. His eyes never leave mine as he tosses it on the floor. The muscles on his defined upper body are tense in his anger, jutting back and forth as his chest heaves with each frustrated breath.

I back into the wall as he approaches, terrified, yet aroused by the predatory look in his eyes.

*****Lemmie removed to meet ToS*****

What am I doing?"

I twist away from him, forcing his fingers to slip from between my legs. Strong arms wrap around my waist as he pulls me backwards against his hard chest. I curse him below my breath, struggling against him. He drops down on the bed, pulling me into his lap.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Away from you," I snap.

"Is that really what you want?" he whispers in my ear, loosening his grip around me, releasing my arms. "You want to get away from me?"

I moan, pivoting my hips as he pulls my panties aside and brushes his fingers against me.

"I'm not letting you go, Bella," he tells me, stroking my wetness as his hard length juts against me.

***** Lemmie removed to meet ToS*****

~dirrty~

"I shouldn't have made you worry," he admits, later that night, shattering the silence of the room with an abnormally soft voice.

The bed shifts as he turns on his side and openly stares at me. I make a move to tug the covers over my exposed body, but he stops me, pulling the duvet down and exposing my bare breasts once more. He trails one long finger across the curve of my right breast before slowly encircling my nipple.

"No, you were right," I concede, batting his curious fingers away before he can distract me any further. "Your comings and goings are none of my business. I overreacted."

"Why did you think I left, Bella?" he questions, sounding slightly wounded by the insinuation. "I get that you thought I was hurt. It was a shit thing to do, not coming home until midnight, but I didn't think ... I didn't think you'd care."

"Of course I care," I hedge, biting my lip a bit before continuing. "My mother left me when I was a baby. My friends all graduated high school and left town before the ink was dry on their diplomas. Every boyfriend I've had has bailed on me. I just, I just don't want to lose you too."

I instantly feel pathetic with my admission. I turn away from him, lying on my left side and willing my eyes to stay dry. When did I turn into such an emotional wreck? Can you have a mid-life crisis at thirty?

The longer he doesn't speak the worse I feel. I sit up in bed and run my fingers through my tangled hair before trudging to the shower, refusing to look his way. I lock the door behind me and press my back against it before sliding to the floor, letting the tears fall with me.

"Bella," his voice murmurs behind me. "Bella, open the door."

"I'm gonna take a shower," I say in the strongest voice I can muster, shaking my head and wiping the tears away. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Open the door, Bella," he repeats firmly. "Don't shut me out."

"Edward..."

"Open the door or I'll break it down. It's up to you."

I mutter a curse below my breath, stand, and open the door, staring at the floor the entire time. He shuffles past me, still naked, and the sound of the shower spray hitting the tiled stall floor fills the room. Steam follows as well, and soon the room was nothing but a misty swirl of fog, water, and him

He wordlessly pulls me into the shower and does something no other person has done for me.

He cares for me.

The scent of my strawberry shampoo fills the air as he washes my hair, massaging my scalp as he stands behind me. I moan at the sensation, of the pure pleasure that it sends quaking through my bones.

My soapy loofah slowly travels my body as he works it across my skin. He's gentle, yet teasing as he runs it across my breasts, skimming his thumb over my nipples. His gaze is sexual, yet tender, and something else is there as well, although I can't place the emotion just yet.

I press my hands against his chest, running my fingertips over the hard surface, memorizing every curve of muscle. His abs clench when I travel lower, and I can't help but smile at the discovery of him being ticklish.

He doesn't smile back. His eyes are dark and filled with that unspoken, unrevealed emotion. Long fingers wrap around my wrists, halting my movements as I travel lower.

Draping my arms over his shoulders he presses me further into the spray of water, resting his forehead gently on mine. We stay that way until the water has grown cold and we're both shivering.

It's not until I'm standing near my bedroom window, wrapped in a soft towel, staring down at the lake below when he finally speaks from where he's perched on the edge of my borrowed bed.

"My parents are dead," he whispers, his voice tinged with pain. "Alice was left to raise me alone. It was hard on her, giving up so much to take care of her kid brother. I think that's why she took off after my high school graduation.

I'm alone too, Bella."

"Oh, Edward," I murmur, crossing the room and joining him on the edge of the bed.

I run my fingers through his damp hair, mesmerized by the bronze and gold color and the softness of it all. My heart crumbles as I watch his face harden as he forces back an emotion I'm so familiar with myself. He turns and gazes at me, meeting my eyes and cupping his hand on my cheek. My lip trembles as his slightly calloused thumb makes contact with my bottom lip.

"I'm alone in this house that reminds me of them, and of Alice! I hate this place. I've hated this place for years. Then you show up, and I don't hate it so much anymore. Last night ... last night was amazing, but then I saw the doubt in your eyes and it scared me. It still does."

"Why does it scare you?"

"Because you'll leave too!" he groans.

I jump in shock at the sound of heartache and disappointment in his voice. He stands, and angrily paces around the room. I pull the towel tighter around me as I watch his lithe movements. Snatching my wrinkled napkin from the desk he waves it in the air.

"Tell me the truth," he demands, towering over me, handing me the list. "Are you leaving when you finish this list? Are you going back to Washington?"

I take the list from him, staring down at the few wishes remaining, the few wishes crossed off.

"Maybe," I whisper, staring up into his defeated eyes as his shoulders slump. "Edward, where are you going in the fall?"

"College."

"Right," I tell him with a nod and a small smile. "You told me you were going to college. You have your entire life ahead of you. You should live it, not waste it on me."

"You think me caring about you is a waste?" he asks with disgust in his voice.

"Yes," I admit.

"I have nothing going for me. I'd hold you back, Edward. I can't do that. I care about you too much to hold you back."

The list grows hazy as my eyes cloud over. He takes it from my hands, and I stare down at the floor in numb silence until he speaks.

"How long do I have?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, my eyebrows drawn in confusion as I finally glance up into his eyes.

Those eyes … they're no longer worried or troubled. They're determined and full of confidence.

"How long until your birthday?" he asks, carefully folding the napkin in half, "How long until you leave?"

"Fourteen days," I murmur.

He appears to mull this over for a moment before his solemn face turns up into an eager grin.

"Can I help you check off your list?"

I raise my eyebrows as the seriousness of our conversation slips away, but I quickly brush his odd change in attitude aside, blaming it on his youth.

"Sure," I shrug, my stomach growing slightly queasy at the thought of the remaining wishes scrawled across that napkin. "If you want to."

~dirrty~

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I gasp, cringing slightly as I feel his hands leave my back.

I can't hear anything he says, as my ears are full of water, but I can hear his boisterous laugh as I lay floating on my back, feeling lighter than I ever have.

I float for a long time, unbothered by the tortuous sun as it beats down upon my body, unconcerned by the beads of sweat forming on my forehead and stinging my eyes.

I'm floating.

I'm floating.

I'm lightness and darkness and air.

I'm everything not constrained, and hinged down by life, by the toils and troubles of earth.

I'm floating.

He floats beside me. Our limbs brush against each other occasionally. There's a wistful smile on his face as he watches the fat, white clouds drift across the brilliant, blue sky and I wonder what he's thinking about, but I don't ask, choosing to let him live in his peaceful thoughts for the time being.

Over the past two weeks we've slowly worked our way through my list. I find myself with only one last thing to carry out in my life before my birthday, but I've put it off, too terrified to accomplish it.

Riding a motorcycle.

I'm no longer necessarily scared of the vehicle, no longer terrified of the ride. I'm scared of what comes next, because once I've accomplished this goal there's nothing left to keep me here in Biloxi. There's nothing tying me down to this place which has grown so close to my heart.

Nothing but him … and he is everything to me.

Everything.

Neither of us has mentioned me leaving since that night. It's a subject left unspoken, although I continue to feel his desperation for me to stay in everything that he does. I feel it when we make love at night. Sometimes he's gentle, and other times he's not, slamming into me and clutching me against his body as though he's trying to get lost in me.

I _want_ to leave him.

I want him to go to college, graduate, find a girl his own age, and settle down. I want him to sow his wild oats, because he hasn't. He's eighteen and works all the damn time. When he's not working he's spending time with me, a woman over ten years his senior, checking off my list, spoiling his last summer before heading off to college.

I _don't_ want to leave him.

I want to stay with him forever, until the end of our days. I want to wake up and make him coffee, throw together a simple lunch of sandwich and chips in a brown paper bag and shove it in his hands as he leaves for work. I want to hear him tease me relentlessly for my lack of cooking skills and fall asleep with him like I do every night, with his arm wrapped around my waist, pressing soft kisses to my bare shoulder as he spoons me.

I want to marry him.

I want to have his children …

Water cascades around me as I sink into the lake. I gasp before I fall under, taking in an extensive breath before the water consumes me. I emerge in a panic, sputtering and coughing, trudging against the lake's silty bottom. He's behind me in a matter of seconds, grasping my arm, his hand slipping from my wet skin as I pull away from him.

"Bella," he calls from behind me, his voice edged with worry. "Bella, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Sick? What happened?"

"Yes," I moan, suddenly feeling it in the pit of my stomach; the queasy feeling of guilt and remorse, intertwined with hurt and want. "I feel sick."

I pull myself onto the pier and grab a towel, half-assed drying myself as I run across the sun-blistered wood. My heart is hammering erratically, threatening to beat right out of my chest, and I'd let it. I'd let it flutter away into the wind because maybe I wouldn't feel the way I do every moment I'm with him.

Edward leaves me alone the rest of the night, only interrupting my self-loathing, to bring me homemade, tomato soup and cornbread as I sit in my bedroom curled in a ball on my bed. He quietly murmurs that it was his grandmother's recipe, before softly pulling the door behind him.

In fact, he leaves me alone the rest of the week. I sleep alone at night, torturing myself by constantly weighing my options, convincing myself that this is for the best. I'm doing the right thing. I'll leave and let him be.

He's young.

He'll move on, find other girl, an actual girl, not a thirty-year old woman.

Thirty-years old.

That's what I am today.

I'm thirty years old. I sit on the deck and sip my coffee, watching the sun rise, wondering where things went so wrong in my life, wondering what the next chapter holds for me. My spoon clinks against the mug as I swirl the contents around, humming in appreciation as I sip the sweet liquid that I no longer take black; not after Edward introduced me to the wonders of his favorite coffee liqueur.

My backpack is waiting by the front door, now covered in buttons and stickers from my travel across the country. I packed it last night with nimble fingers and a numb mind. I pick it up now, hating the way it feels between my fingers, like failure, and defeat. I sling it over one shoulder and emerge from the house, pausing as I stand on the weathered deck.

Edward is leaning against the motorcycle, legs crossed in front of him. Shades cover his eyes, but they cannot hide the grim expression on his face. I slowly approach him, tossing the backpack into the passenger seat of my tiny car as the gravel crunches beneath my feet. The moroseness leaves his face one I'm standing just a whisper away. His pink lips turn into a small smile as he speaks three words, a demand, not a request.

"Ride with me."

I find myself nodding before his words are even fully absorbed. Pushing himself from the bike he turns, gripping the handles in his hands, throwing one leg over the bike as he pushes the heavy machine upright.

I carefully climb on behind him, pressing my body snugly against his, relishing the feel of his abdominal muscles as they tense and flex under my fingers once I wrap my arms around his waist. He guns the engine and the hog roars to life beneath us, the sound and the vibrations going straight to my core, causing me to press myself even more firmly against him.

Then we're gone, weaving down the winding lake road with the wind against our faces. My heart is in my throat as he takes the sharp turns, and the vehicle seemingly falls to the side. He glides across the earth with skill and determination, expertly handling the motorcycle as though he'd been riding them his entire life.

When we hit the intercoastal highway I relax somewhat, letting the whipping wind care for my sweaty hands, easing up on my grip of his body somewhat before releasing him altogether.

My arms are in the air, fingers spread out, reaching for nothing, yet everything. It's nothing like drifting in a weed-induced happiness, or floating on my back in the murky water.

It's like flying, yet I'm not flying alone. I'm flying with him.

We pull into a near-empty parking lot near a deserted stretch of beach some distance from the highway. Edward cuts the engine, and the rumbling motorcycle dies, the monstrous growling and yearning sound instantly fading away, replaced with the crooning of seagulls, and happy children playing in the distant surf.

Edward silently pulls me from the motorcycle and to a nearby, empty pavilion. We stroll hand in hand across the simmering lot, dipping beneath the shade. I start to sit, but he drops onto the picnic table first, pulling me down with him as he goes.

I sit between his legs as he presses himself against me, burying his face in the crook of my neck, breathing in my scent. His soft lips pepper delicate kisses along my collarbone as he works his way to my ear, then breathes the words I've never been told before.

"I'm in love with you, Bella."

My chest tightens at his words, at the softness and sincerity in his sweet voice.

"I know it's not what you want to hear," he continues, "but it's the truth. You probably think I'm too young to know what love is, but I'm not. I feel it in my chest. It's crippling and painful and wonderful and horrible all at once, but I can't live without it, not now that I've experienced it.

"And I'm not letting you leave me. I can't stop you from leaving Biloxi, but know that I'll follow you. I'll follow you across Mississippi, down the Dirty Thirty, and all the way back to Forks, Washington. I'll follow you anywhere, Bella, because I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you."

I'm rendered speechless by his words. My body sinks against him as he strokes my arms beneath his hands, lightly massaging my skin. He says nothing, waiting my response with more patience that a man his age should have, with more dignity than I deserve.

"Biloxi is nice," I mumble, watching the low-rising waves lap against the shore. "I really love it here."

He hums in agreement, gently kissing the sensitive skin just below my ear.

"I love trying new things with you," I continue as he nods against my neck, his lips now running teasingly along my jawline. "I miss sleeping next to you at night and waking up beside you. I love watching your face when you first wake up in the morning … the way you always look surprised to see me staring back.

"What else?" he murmurs against the edge of my mouth.

"I love your laugh," I whisper, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "I love the way the corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way you tease me, the way you make love to me."

"Is that all?" he asks, pressing a chaste kiss to my lips as I whisper my last confession.

"I love _you_," I admit breathlessly, feeling the curl of his lips against mine as they draw into a smile.

"I've fallen in love with you."

The hard, rigid muscles of his chest pressed against the curve of my back stiffen for a moment, and then relax. We hold one another as the sun shifts in the horizon, slowly dipping far beyond the white sand and lazy waves.

There are no plans made, no silly little lists. There's just me, him, and the waves crashing in the distance.

All my downfalls, every single regret washes away with the pull of the tide, at least for now, because why worry? Why should anyone waste a single moment in time worrying about things we have no control over, such as age or the past?

Or falling in love.

* * *

Special thanks to SunflowerFran for polishing up my big, rambling mess, MizzezzPattinson for her fabulous pre-reading skills, CaliGirlMon for the gorgeous banners (she made two!), and luvtwilight4eva for her angsty advice.

Jonesn- I was scared to post this at first, but my crew mentioned above assured me that, while sad, it is also uplifting, which is what I was longing for in this one-shot. I hope it's everything you love in a fic, boo ... a little sad, a little happy, a little ust, a couple of lemmies, and a little forbidden. And don't forget heart, because I really put it in here for you. Oh, and a hot guy on a motorcycle ... and let's not forget the weed. ;)

Happy birthday, Ash. Thanks for being my ff other half. I heart you like no other.


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